More Than Love
by Drums and Guns
Summary: "You see, Claire, I gave you a chance—many a chance, actually. But now...Now it's time to go. Because after all, I deserve this." Alternate ending to Havenport. Written for creative writing assignment back in June. (RE-UPLOADED)


**Havenport (S1E13) 00:36:40**

Keystrokes thrum against the silence in the room and create a steady pulse for thought to thrive on.

"Joe."

"N-not now, Claire."

"I know you're upset."

"Yes, and I am processing those feelings using the therapy of word. So—"

"Joe. I'm here."

His response is utter silence, not even a hint of acknowledgement.

"_Joe!_" Finally, she has his attention. "I want to make a deal."

A long silence chills the air as it passes. Claire keeps her eyes focused on the single beam of light spilling onto the floor from the half-drawn curtains; Joe keeps his peeled to his work until finally, he looks up at her, and presses a long sigh through his lips.

"I'm listening."

"I'll stay. I'll do…I'll do everything you ask, under one condition."

"No." He shakes his head. "_No._"

"You're not gonna hear me out." Her tone is resigned, frustrated. When her ex-husband replies, it's immediately clear that he feels the same way.

"You want me to give up Joey."

"It's not the life I want for him. And I _know_ it's not the life you want for him. So _I will_ _stay_," she stresses to him, stepping closer. "I won't fight you, but it's just…" A single deep breath passes through her lips. "It's just gonna be you and me."

"And you think you'd…you'd be okay with that?"

"Eventually. Yes."

"Well, w-why, why should I believe you?" The question she so dreaded he would ask makes the pit of her stomach turn. Especially as of late, he's impossible to convince, and to her, he's been particularly closed-minded.

"You don't have to. Time will tell the truth. I loved you once, Joe; maybe I can learn to love you again. I mean, at least…at least let me try." She advances further, draws herself even closer to him until he mirrors her movement and finally, they touch; her hands on his shoulders, his at her sides.

"If I…give up Joey…" he confirms. Her eyes give him her response. "But you're _scared_ of me," he whispers into her hair; she bows her head and her skin ripples at the harsh sound of his words, but her fear does not permeate to the surface.

"Just give me some time," Claire breathes in return, and then the room falls victim to complete, eerie, undisturbed silence. Joe's fingers skirt her cheek to brush away a loose strand of hair and she pulls in a sharp breath. Their eyes meet for a fleeting moment; she breaks the contact and averts her gaze to the floor between them. Suddenly, the knife at her hip feels heavier.

When she finds the nerve to meet his stony gaze again, whether it is an act of bravery or stupidity, she tentatively steps forward, until their feet are nearly touching, and presses her lips to his. The fact that he returns the kiss without hesitation is both relieving and scary to her; she has him convinced, but…it's still a terrifying concept to her, being loved by such an insane, psychotic man.

Right now, though, she knows she has to push those feelings aside.

The intimacy of the moment lingers for almost a full minute longer before she feels ready to cut it off. Clinging to the faith she has that he won't notice, she removes one hand from his shoulder and slowly, _carefully _lowers it to her hip. Curling her fingers around the handle of the knife, she takes one final, deep breath in through her nose and starts to draw it out of her pocket.

"Do you _really_ think I'm that stupid, Claire?" For a moment, her heart stops beating and catches in her throat; her eyes widen in horror. While she'd anticipated small deviations from her plan, this is a complete turnaround that, especially now, she isn't ready for.

In one short, sharp motion, Joe catches her wrist and for a moment she is physically paralyzed by fear. There's only one way out of this, and she knows her survival isn't in the cards.

"Joe, wait," she half-warns, half-begs, and she takes a step back. "_Joe. _Joe, please…!" her breathing picks up; short, shallow gasps for breath as panic begins to set in. His fingers wrestle hers for the blade, and when she resists, he digs his nails into the back of her hand and she releases her grip as a reflex. The weapon is his; it is now that her eyes widen and her skin pales. "Please, _please_ don't do this."

"No, no, Claire." A devilish smile twitches at the corners of his mouth and as Claire backs up a few steps more, he closes in on her until her back is against the wall. "It's too late for that." A single hook of his foot into her ankle has her crashing to the floor.

"You don't—you don't have to—"

"Oh, but I'm afraid I do." Shaking her head with tears in her eyes, mouthing 'no, no' as now her throat cannot produce sound, Claire tries to stand but he kicks her square in the stomach, sending her back down to the floor in an instant. "You see, Claire, I gave you a chance—many a chance, actually," Joe muses, turning away. "And **you**—" immediately he pivots on his heel to face her again, drives the knife dangerously close to her throat, traces it down to her collarbone and draws out his words carefully as she fights back a whimper in fear, "you…didn't…take them. Any of them. You just…couldn't control that, that, _most insufferable_ spirit of yours, that _need _to have a say in every damn thing around you. You couldn't just let the cards fall as they were meant to." The feeling of bile rising in her throat overcomes Claire's will to speak. "So _**now**__,_" the volume, the sheer _power_, in his voice rises sharply and she winces at the sound. "Now I think it's time you go. Because, really, Claire, your behavior has been just…just **awful**_._ Truly, truly, _awful._ A-and to be perfectly fair, after putting up with your atrocious— _unbridled_ temper—these past few days, I _deserve _this."

"Joe, stop this. You _have _to understand that—"

"No!" She crumbles under the yell that resonates throughout the room. "No, no, _no _Claire, it's _you_ that needs to understand. You have had **every** opportunity to write this scene, every—every word at your hands, all the things you could possibly wish to say…well, within reason of course. Some things are just, you know, meant to be." The words leave his throat under a breathless laugh. "You like to play the hero, but this—" Joe grips her hair and makes her look him in the eye. "_This_ is your fault. All you. This, you _can _take responsibility for. Because from here on, everything that happens will not only have been caused by you, but will have had the potential to be stopped by you had you the mind to take action when you could."

She wants to stand, to leave, to _run _until her legs give out and she collapses to the ground, but Claire is debilitated by fear, hardly able to even breathe.

In the distance, the heating register clicks and clangs to life, and from the hallway come the sounds of a few of Joe's acolytes making their way around the house. It's just short of physically sickening to her, how devoted these lunatics are to him, but the unease in her stomach may very well just be the situation she's in catching up with her body.

"Do let me help you up." Carroll's voice calls her back from her racing thoughts.

"No, I'm fine."

"Please; I insist." He extends his hand a little further, beckons with his fingers, until she has no choice but to grasp it. What she doesn't know, though, is that the raising of her arm is what he's after; his grip locks her hand into his, ensures that she cannot escape, and he slips the knife between her ribs. The agonized scream that shreds through her throat is almost as painful as the blade slashing the muscles in her side. Joe tears the knife out, but as quickly as he does he thrusts it back into her, gashing through her center to clip her breastbone.

Now her throat is too strained to hold a voice; she's screaming, crying, but no sound comes forth. Joe deems himself satisfied when she falls back, limp, lifeless, breathing so shallowly that it's clear his job is done. Dropping the bloodied kitchen knife to the floor, listening as the metal clatters against the hard stone with a wicked grin, he kneels down and, his hand gently curled under her chin, tilts Claire's head back a little and looks her in the eye. "You were wrong, Claire, when you said our love was a lie," he breathes, and although she's given up she still tries to turn away from his hot breath on her cheeks. "_We loved with a love that was more than love_," he whispers, and with that he leaves her, soundless from the time he stands up until he's out the door, shutting it behind him with a single, bitter laugh.


End file.
